


The letters spell 'I miss you'

by issabella



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Dyslexia, Fluff, Gen, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, bookshop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issabella/pseuds/issabella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following prompt by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/tincat227/pseuds/tincat227">tincat227</a><br/>Imagine one of your otp(Erik?)had Dyslexia. And Charles was a friendly warmhearted young man, reading storybooks for little Erik. </p><p>I took this a little further. Erik is ten and Charles twenty at the beginning of the fic, then there is a thirteen year time-leap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The letters spell 'I miss you'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tincat227](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincat227/gifts).



> As always my thanks to [Lonelyparts](../../../users/lonelyparts/pseuds/lonelyparts) for the hard beta-work.

Charles didn't notice the boy coming into the bookshop because he was alone, but because he had such a determined frown on his face and looked so earnest, almost driven. The expression was rather out of place for a boy his age. He couldn't be older than ten.

The boy looked around, gaze searching, and for a moment it appeared as if he would turn around and leave right then and there, intimidated by the sheer amount of books on display. Yet then his mouth settled into a thin, stubborn line that spoke volumes and he stalked over to the Children and Young Adult section. Deliberately Charles turned his back to the boy, otherwise he might drill a hole into him with his stare. He didn't want the boy to notice – he might feel embarrassed then and lose heart. Though he was curious as to what brought the boy here – alone. Perhaps he had saved up on pocket-money to – for the first time – buy something himself. Well then, if the boy had decided that it would be a book he wanted to buy, then Charles wanted to make sure he could do so undisturbed.

Charles turned back toward the shop and the boy, but he was determined to not giving the boy any obvious attention and wait till he had made his decision. So he started with sorting the bookmarks on display on the counter. Yet unable to resist, he took a quick look at the boy after all and what he saw made him question his decision. The boy stared up at one of the shelves, his determined expression clearly wavering, as if he was about to forsake his quest. Slowly, an odd sort of panic and despair began emanating from the boy, only a hint of it visible in his face but clear to Charles' telepathy.

Before he could think twice of it, he was around the counter and approaching the boy. “Hello. May I help you?”

Startled, the boy looked up, grey eyes wide. “I'm looking for a book.” Just as the words left his mouth he flinched and again the embarrassed thoughts were clear to read for Charles. The little bell at the shop-door rang, announcing the arrival of another customer, but Charles didn't bother to look around.

“Did you have a specific title in mind or a certain topic?”

The boy shook his head. “It's not for me.” The answer was accompanied by the image of a woman, interwoven with a strong protectiveness and love that stunned Charles. He was hard-pressed not to ask 'Is this your mother?' , not wanting to give away his gift, fearing he might unsettle the boy. He tried to keep his focus on what he was saying, though it was hard with the boy's mind spilling over images rather clearly and him thinking so intently.

“I see, that's always a bit tricky then. But I'm sure we'll find something suitable. Perhaps if you can tell me who it's for and what she – or he usually likes to read.”

“It's for my mother.” The boy bit his lips. Again the trailing images spoke more clearly than mere words could. The woman, the boy's mother, laying in bed, sick, cancer, too weak from medication and therapy to be able to do much, not strong enough to read herself, though she had always loved to, reading to her son when he was little, and the boy, now wanting to do the same for his mother. “But...”

“Yes...” Charles waited patiently, hoping the other customer would not interrupt. He sent out his mind, intending to make the other person content with browsing on their own, only to find that the bookshop was actually empty, except for the boy and himself.

“I need – I want to read it to her.”

“That's very nice of you. That's already something to go on, what about … this... or this.” Charles pulled two books from one of the shelves and handed them to the boy, whose eyes widened and for a moment he looked like he meant to step back and not take them. “They are... very thick.”

“Oh yes, but both are filled with short stories. This one has spookier and more adventurous ones, and that one, funnier ones. Why don't you just bring them over there and take a closer look. You can read a bit from each and see which one you and your mother would enjoy more.” He indicated a couch close-by, set up with comfy pillows and blankets for anyone who wanted to come in and browse in the books for a bit.

The boy still looked uncertain and Charles gave him an encouraging smile. “You can take as long as you like.”

The boy straightened a little and finally reached out to take them. “Thank you.” Then he went over to the couch, put the books on it and sat down, before pulling one close.

Charles decided it was time to leave the boy alone for a bit. He could keep tabs on him from the counter just as well, as if he were sitting beside him, after all. He imagined the boy might still be nervous, all alone in a bookshop, but once he had settled in and dug into the book, he would forget everything around himself, just as Charles usually did when he was reading.

But nothing of the sort seemed to happen. Aimlessly, the boy leafed through the book, then stared at one of the pages while while the ripples of distress seemed to grow bigger and bigger. Trying not to appear too obvious Charles drifted closer, while he did the same with his mind. The thoughts projected by the boy were of disappointment, failure and shame. Though the _why_ lay hidden deeper. Carefully slipping into the boy's mind, Charles went there, looking for the book, the page and what the boy was struggling with. It was confusing and startling. Charles, who had devoured books as soon as he was able to read and had gotten to the point, where he could just sweep through sentences and paragraphs, hardly stopping, sucking in the sense of words, found himself faced with a world, where not even words by themselves made sense. He saw how the boy was struggled with identifying each letter and string them together, while the blasted things seemed to twitch and twist in front of his eyes.

Charles had to pull away, rubbing his temple.

Not sure how to help the boy, but unable not to try, Charles stepped up to him.

The boy looked up. His grey eyes were wet with unshed tears, but his expression was the same as when he had come in. Earnest and determined not to cry. He closed the book, ready to give up and hand it back.

“It's a rather intimidating book I gave you, I know. It's hard to pick what story to start with. Would you allow me to read you my favourite one?”

The boy seemed taken aback by the proposition, a small distrusting frown appearing on his forehead, though then he reluctantly handed the book over. “If you want to.”

So Charles settled down beside the boy, scanned the index for the story he wanted, then leant back when he found the page and started to read.

It was one story of the many adventures of a band of chimney-sweeps in an old (and slightly surreal) London. He had loved to reading those stories himself several years back, before he had gone to England at just sixteen. Hoping to embark on adventures of his own, and find happiness, only to end up back in the States four years later, having realised it had not been the life he had wanted to live after all. Yet to have found his 'adventure', he'd gone back to the adventures he knew and loved by working in a bookshop.

Charles kept his eyes on the book, but was aware of how the boy leant closer, trying to see, as Charles did, the story unravelling in the words he could so easily read.

As the story came to its end Charles closed the book, and they both sat there in silence for a moment.

“Have you ever been to London?”

“Yes.” Charles turned to look at the boy, who was frowning slightly.

“What does it look like?”

“It...” Charles hesitated, but then, the boy didn't seem scared, not of people at least. “If you want to, I can show you.”

Now there was a little bit of suspicion creeping into the earnest looking face. “How?”

Charles lifted two fingers to his forehead. “I can show you the things I've seen in your mind.”

The curiosity he saw in the grey eyes decided it for Charles. He picked a memory of walking along the Thames and carefully projected it into the boy's mind. First there was a surprised gasp, then the feel of wonder was washing over him. Charles picked another memory, then another and was surprised by the boy's laughter. The sound seemed to startle the boy himself too, and Charles let the memories fade back.

“You're a mutant too?”

“Yes, I am...” The way the boy had put it didn't go unnoticed, and if the excited fidgeting was any indicator - “Do you know any other mutants?”

“Me – I'm a mutant.” The boy's visible pride made Charles smile.

“How splendid. If I may ask, what is your mutation?”

“I can feel and move metal things. I'm not very good at it – yet. But my mother says, practice makes perfect.” And with that the excitement was suddenly gone and Charles remembered what he had seen before from the boy's memories.

“Your mother is right. And most mutations only manifest much later, when you're a teenager. So you really have a head-start and your powers will probably grow with you.”

 _But I want to show her - what I can do. I want to show her that I can learn. I want her to be proud of me! Not enough time... she'll be gone before I can do anything..._ The thoughts were as plain as the boy's pain.

“I need to go now. Thank you.” The boy slid from the couch.

Charles stood up as well, feeling helpless and not sure if he had done anything that warranted that thank you. “You're welcome. How about – you can tell your mother the story. See if she likes it. If she does, you could come back and we could pick another one to read.”

The boy stops, considering. _I can't read it to her, but I can tell it to her nevertheless..._ He looked up at Charles, suddenly his eyes widened in realisation and he stretched out his hand. “I'm Erik!” he blurted out.

Charles smiled and shook the smaller hand. “My name is Charles. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I really have to go now, but I'll be back.”

“I look forward to it.”

Erik turned and headed for the door, the bell jingling as he opened it. He turned around one last time. “Have you read all the books in the shop?”

Charles smiled. “Not all, no. But a fair few.”

There was a tinge of hope shining on the boys face, before he turned and finally ran off.

  
  


Erik came back often.

Sometimes he had to wait for Charles, who was busy with customers. Then he picked up the book Charles was reading to him, searched out the stories he already knew and tried to read them on his own. Erik was never content to just listen, but started to ask Charles how he did it. Charles was happy to try and show Erik, in his mind, how the words looked for him, and tried to help and find a way for Erik to make sense of the letters as they appeared to his own eyes.

And at the same time he was surprised, by how Erik seemed completely at ease with Charles reading his mind. He even seemed glad that there were things Charles knew about him, about his struggles with reading, about his sick mother, that he didn't need to speak about yet still have Charles know and understand.

That didn't stop Erik from sometimes getting so frustrated that he would make the metal bell above the shop-entrance toll on its own. What ended in Charles not only teaching Erik to read but also trying to help him focus his growing abilities.

It became an almost daily routine, where Erik showed up after school, stayed for one or two hours, before heading home. Charles couldn't recall how it had been without Erik hanging around and he became aware of Erik's mind approaching before he even reached the door.

Until the day, that Erik didn't show up.

Days stretched to weeks, to months, a year and there was no sign of Erik.

Charles was worried, though he tried to stop himself by thinking reasonably.

What he hoped, for Erik's sake, was that his mother had gotten into a program of some new cancer treatment that had them move to a different state. Yet what he feared had really happened, was that Erik's mother had died.

That thought brought on dreams of a funeral, a stern-faced Erik, dressed all in black, his young face solemn and earnest, but not crying.

He only hoped Erik didn't have to go through it alone. He knew Erik's father was long dead, but he had mentioned an aunt and uncle, the aunt being there to help her sick sister. It had seemed as if they lived rather far away. Had they taken Erik with them?

Sometimes Charles got the notion to look for Erik, though he didn't really know how. He tried to search for him while he was walking through the city, or on the underground, casting out his mind as far as it would go, pushing himself further and further, but he never found him. Erik might be hundreds of miles away.

Charles hoped he was happy.

He hoped he remembered him – sometimes.

  
  


The bell atop the door tolled as the first customer of the day entered. Charles sighed. It was still early in the morning and he had hoped he could get the decorations for the Steampunk-themed book-reading tonight set up before the day's business would really start. He tried to remember why he hadn't managed to get everything done before the shop opened and looked down at his shop-assistent, Alex, who was still looking rather sleepily up at him. Alright, Charles may own the shop now, after the previous owner Charles had been working for, had retired and sold it to him. Yet that obviously didn't mean that his employees would take him serious when he asked them to come in early - or do their job. _'Alex! If you haven't noticed, we have a customer!'_

Alex jumped at the sudden voice in his head. He claimed he was getting used to it, though apparently not in the morning. But he dutifully headed in the direction of the entrance. Charles couldn't see them from where he stood on the ladder in the SF&Fantasy corner of the bookshop, but he could hear them clearly – and cringed slightly at what Alex seemed to think was good customer-service.

“Can I help you?”

“No...no I was just – I'm just looking around.” The man spoke with a slight accent Charles couldn't place.

“Yeah, all right man. Just holler if you need something.”

Charles rolled his eyes. He almost expected the customer to just leave right away. But then Charles finally saw the customer in the Children and Young Adult section, of which he had a clear few from the ladder, able to see over and across some of the shelves.

Charles wondered, father looking for books for his kid... or an uncle maybe?

Charles hung another of the hot-air balloon decorations from a hook in the ceiling, before he found himself looking at the customer again. He frowned. The man was handsome, definitely younger than Charles, though the suit he wore and his earnest expression made him seem older and there was a determined air about him.

For a whimsical moment Charles thought it a pity he hadn't approached the Gay-Interest section of the bookshop. He would be tempted to try his luck flirting with the customer then.

A frown creased the man's forehead as he scanned the shelves, as if he were looking for something very specific. Finally he pulled out a thick book, his grey eyes suddenly lighting up.

Charles found himself climbing down from the ladder. He handed a confused Alex the decorations and made his way to the customer. As Charles rounded some shelves he found the customer no longer standing in front of the shelves. He had moved over to the old couch, with cushions and blankets, inviting customers to stay and read a bit. He wasn't sitting down though, just standing there, his back to Charles.

Charles walked over to him. “Hello, is there anything I can help you with or have you already picked something out? Please feel free to sit down and browse, if you...”

The man turned around, the book clutched to his chest, staring down at Charles. “Charles...?!”

Charles stopped, startled. How come the man knew his name. He sure looked like someone Charles wouldn't easily forget.

The man gave a small laugh. “I – I'm not sure if you remember. It's been like - thirteen years. Of course you wouldn't recognise me, though you haven't changed one bit. You're just like I remember...” The man's expression softened and Charles just stared.

It couldn't be.

“But maybe you haven't forgotten this...” The man flicked his fingers and the bell above the door started tolling incessantly.

Charles shook his head. After all these years...

“Or – or if you still don't remember you can look into my mind, look at my memories, maybe then...”

“Erik. I haven’t forgotten. I haven't...”

There was excitement in the man's expression, so familiar and yet very different from the boy from thirteen years ago. Yet, just like he had seen the expression waver and be replaced with worry in the boy, it now did so too in the man. “I'm sorry. Sorry I never got to say goodbye or let you know what happened with me. I really wanted to, but...”

“No, Erik it's alright. You were just a boy. I guessed – your mother?”

Erik nodded. His expression turning more solemn, though the pain he had seen in the boy was dulled down through years having gone by. “She died. My aunt and uncle took me back with them to Germany. Years later I figured out how to search for the book-store address and I thought about writing. I wanted to let you know how much this meant to me. You helping me and just – everything. But then I wasn't sure if you were even still working here, or remembered ...” Erik shrugged.

“But you've come – now.” Charles still couldn't quite believe it. Erik, the boy who despite his struggles had never been afraid of inviting Charles into his mind.

Erik nodded. “I moved back to New York a year ago. I should have come here sooner, but I needed to settle in and then – I guess, I was afraid you wouldn't be working here anymore and I wouldn't be able to see you again after all.”

“I still do – that is, I own the bookshop now.” It was a silly thing to say, but Charles didn't know what else he could say to that, his mind still trying to catch up with the full extent of the situation.

They looked at each other, silent. _He's grown taller than me... and he looks – good._ Charles' gaze travelled down and up again, confused by his own thoughts.

“Have you ever been to Germany?” Erik's question came out of the blue.

Charles shook his head. “No.”

“Want to know what it looks like? If you want to, I can show you.” And Erik reached for Charles' hand and pulled it up to his own forehead. There was a hopeful smile on his face.

Erik's larger hand felt warm. Charles flexed his fingers and they brushed lightly against Erik's forehead. “Yes.” He touched Erik's mind, and despite the years that had passed all he felt was a familiarity and welcome and his own thoughts echoed in Erik's mind. _I missed you._


End file.
